I walk pass minding my business
and a child smeared with mud
and dust is disrespecting me with
a rain of harassment and insults.
The child picks stones to aim at me;
his odors pour at me through the
breeze. I lose my temper and rip off
a branch of a tree. I lash him leaving
a mark on his left leg.
The child’s cry is a nauseating picture;
The mucus from his nose looks gorier
than his tears. The Child’s father looks
at me with disdain, and my conscience drums.
I take up the child and give him comfort
over my laps while I am seated under an
airy tree that inspire stories. I sing the
child a lullaby but his cry will not stop; I
start a story and gradually it seems his ears
were in alignment to the tune of my lips
The child is quiet, but seems living in my
story. I search into his eyes and see horror;
I go with my tale paying no heed to
whatever his mind cooked. I do finish
my story when I realize his urine soaking
into my pants.
I dump the child; I pull off my pants and
lament; I feel polluted, and contaminated
with regrets. A neighbor looks at me with
pity, and at the child, with scorn. What can
I do? Nothing…